


Already Gone

by allthelovelybadones



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, long chapters but slow updates sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-03-08 06:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthelovelybadones/pseuds/allthelovelybadones
Summary: People change. That's all an explanation that Jamison got from you when you split two years ago. People change. He loved you, would have done anything for you. That's why he agreed to take a break. Agreed to a pause that turned permanent. Two years with little change in his day to day life, until Angela requests he starts working on a suit for her, along with ten others. They'll be stationed next door, in the lab you and he built together.Sure, he doesn't care. Just more people that will shy away from him now that he resembles Dr. Junkenstein more than Junkrat. He doesn't care at all.Until he does.Until you stand in the doorway, one of the ten.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm L0W. 
> 
> Showing up years late to a dying fandom and writing for a niche-ish character is kinda my thing. 
> 
> Enjoy!

# 

“She’s only been working here a couple of months—that’s all I’ve known her for, but she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. She’s got the most amazing smile, like you even believe—! Oh, and she’s got these beautiful eyes. Brown, but so much more than that…”

Jamison groaned as he tried to concentrate on the wires in front of him. He’d been against taking an intern on, preferring to work alone, but Angela had insisted. Said it was good, to talk to people. She was also hinting that he should get out of his lab more often, but he’d preferred it to anywhere else. It was one of the few spaces that were entirely his own. Well, it  _ had _ been. 

The kid was good enough at getting him tea. Pretty fast learner too, considering Jamison had never taught before, and often wasn’t very good at it. He laughed. Five years ago, he’d never of considered teaching someone, let alone getting an  _ intern _ . Made him sound like a studious professor. 

His eyes look around the familiar room, just to ignore whatever the Gofer was saying. They landed on the door to a small library, where he slept now. He hadn’t moved back into the main Overwatch base, not since— He shook his head to dispel the thoughts.  _ Don’t _ . 

Five years ago, he would have thought things have been  _ a lot _ different. 

In a considerably more sour mood, he turns to the person giving their account of the prettiest girl working in the medical wing. He’s turned away from his work to continue talking. William, his name is. Bright enough book-wise, but not much in common sense. 

“Oi, the doc should have the results back. Go get ‘em.” William jumps at the opportunity. He always does when he gets to go to the med bay on the other side of the base. It suits Jamison just fine; he gets peace and quiet  _ and _ gets to avoid Moria. Wins all the way around. 

William leaves, a bounce to his step like a lovesick puppy, and the room is quiet. He’s left alone with his thoughts. A good thing, usually, but recently, the auditory hallucinations have been getting worse. For the past two years, they’ve been building till he’s almost back at where he started. The doc’s been upping his medication, but she’s been unafraid to tell him what she thinks the real cause is. 

The migraines, the hearing voices, the aches and pains, all started two years ago. Hallucinations, malnutrition—that’s all stuff he’s dealt with, but apparently, it’s worse because of depression. 

He sighs. His whole life’s been worse since  _ she’s _ left. Hands balled into fists, nails scraping palm. Treacherous thoughts creep in: how easy it would be to call her. She’s just at another base, request a transfer, or a temporary leave. See her, just once. Once, and you’ll be fine. 

His clenched fist meets the side of his head. Once, twice, three times. The pain is something else to focus on. It reminds him that, yes, he can still feel. Again and again, until it doesn’t work anymore. 

He laughs. Long and loud and without any reason other than it’ll quiet his thoughts. Maybe having William around isn’t so bad. 

Willie (as he sometimes calls him) is back in a half hour, honestly less time than he thought. 

“She’s coming  _ here _ .  _ She’ll be working _ here!” He says as soon as he steps in the door. Jamison would have tuned him out, but  _ here _ is his sanctuary. After much questioning, trying to get William to slow down and explain himself, he learns that the new girl, along with some others, is going to be moving into the lab next door. 

He supposes it’d happen eventually. The adjacent room is furnished with the highest tech. It was built right next to this one on purpose.  _ “I want to work next to you, but you’re way too messy.”  _ He remembers how she laughed, bubbly and adorable. He remembers how he took her into his arms, nuzzling into her neck and laughing along. How he’d tried to argue, but he really couldn’t. She’d had a point. 

It’s good the room is being put to use again. 

“You’re going to love her,” William assures. He’s already moved into the room, through the door that connects the two. Once, it had two handprints, one larger one in yellow, the smaller one in purple, but it’s been long painted over. 

“She’s sweet. Really, the sweetest person ever—caring, too.” He shifts through boxes. It seems maintenance has been cleaning it in the couple of years since it’s been used. “Maybe you two can be friends.” 

“Right, mate,” he snorts. He doesn’t need any more friends. He has Roadhog. Well, it’s a long-distance friendship, but still. “When’s she comin’?” 

“Soon!” 

_ “Soon” _ turns out to be another three weeks. In that time, he’s told why they’re coming. Angela’s looking into creating armor that can automatically heal you. Plans on giving it to people like Genji and McCree who can never be fully treated, but can be kept in stable condition when monitored. 

He’s supposed to work with the new girl, whoever she is. Weird, she’s worked her a couple months—and even another Overwatch base before this—and he’s never met her. Well, it’s not like he’s the most social person. 

Choosing who’s sent over to this side of the base is a long process. There’s only so many they can relocate, and finding a perfect mix of experienced medical workers with novices, all who are willing to work with the infamous Junkrat, is difficult. 

By the time week three rolls around, he’s gone from distrusting, to curious, to eager, back to distrusting, to ready-to-get-this-over-with. It doesn’t help that everyone is buzzing with excitement. Whoever this is must be a huge deal. He briefly worries that it  _ is _ going to be Moria, but by the time the day finally comes, he finds he doesn’t care who it is. All he knows is that his head hurts and today is one of the Bad Days.

People shuffle in, carrying boxes and boxes of equipment. The traffic sometimes became too much, so they’d enter through his room. It’s so reminiscent of the first time the room was filled. When that cowboy and ninja came in carrying boxes, helping both of them as they set everything up. There was more laughter, that last time. That’s why he stays in his room, seated at his workbench.  

He’s left alone in his corner, for the most part, unless William comes by to check on him. Rudely, he makes him eat something sometime in the early morning and then leaves him to his own devices after that. 

His head buzzed with past memories, so vividly replayed in his head, it’s like she’s saying them right now. 

_ “I’m so excited!”  _

He brings one hand up to his ear. He knows it’s not real, she’s not even here anymore, but it  _ feels _ so real. One hand swats at his head, hoping it’ll jostle his brain into the right position. Like a little machine that just needs the gears to pop into the right place. 

_ “We’ll be working so close to each other!” _

He looks over his shoulder. He knows she’s not there, but it feels like she is. Like she’ll come in carrying a box. Smiling exasperatedly, asking him to help her. 

_ “Maybe you can… “sneak over”, sometime?”  _

He knows how this plays out. He knows what he says. He knows this already happened, but it’s become so hard to separate fantasy from reality. His fingers run over the working bench, searching for something on their own. 

_ “You will? You promise?”  _

He presses a button. A small ding tells him the machine has come to life and started its one function. His other hand fiddles with the little metal thing it’s picked up. 

_ “Oh, I can’t wait! We’re gonna build all the best stuff together!”  _

He presses the button again, on autopilot. It plays the recording, only replaying the sounds of movement from the other room. It confirms that what he heard wasn’t real, just another hallucination, despite how much different it felt. That hurts. 

_ “I love you, Jamie.”  _

It hurts because he wants it to be real. He opens his hand, staring at the small metal locket he’d worked so hard to make. Inside is a picture of him and her, back when they were still “them”. One single couple rather than two separate people. It’s their fifth anniversary. When they went out celebrating. 

_ “To tha pas’ five years,” _ he had slurred.  _ “An’ ta five more.” _

But they had never made it that far. 

“She’s here!” William interrupts. He’s cleaned the entire room, top to bottom like that’ll impress her. Jamison looks up, reluctantly. The locket is stored back into the drawer it came from. “I invited her over to introduce you two.” 

He’s holding another box, one full of wires that he jostles as he anxiously hops from one foot to the other. “I’m going to ask her out for drinks, later, if all goes well—”

“William?”

Jamison freezes.  _ No— _

She steps into the room, wearing a lab coat. ( _ “I like wearing them, Jamie, they make me feel official.” _ ) She’s smiling, a little stiffer than if it were genuine. ( _ “Wow, you can really tell? I guess you  _ do  _ know me well.”) _ She waits at the door, on the edge of her room and his, repeating the invisible barrier. 

“Hey, I need my charger.” She pointedly keeps her eyes on William. Her voice is light, too light at an attempt of feigned casualty. “It’s in that box.”

“Oh, of course.” William’s already walking forward. “This is Jamison Fawkes. He used to be Junkrat.” 

William’s past her, and doesn’t see as she looks him up and down. Like she’s taking in what the two years apart must have been for him. But she can’t understand. Can’t know the pain he felt, how many times he’s cried or felt like part of him is missing, moved a thousand miles away after their “break” from each other. How could she possibly get that from one look? 

“We’ve met.” 

His throat constricts as she meets his eyes again. He can feel the burning, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes that he promises himself he won’t shed. He’s cried enough for her. 

She nods, turns, and closes the door behind her. 

The room is quiet. 

He hates the quiet. 

“ _We’ve met”_? Is that what you say to a seven-year relationship? Is that what you say to someone you used to love, who was going to marry you, who would die for you, and who you spent the better part of your adult life around? 

Stupid, wet, hot tears slide down his cheeks. Maybe this is why she left: because he can’t keep promises, even the stupid small ones. His chest constricts. How stupid. His vision gets blurry. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Blurry until the bright orange of his right hand is little more than a colorful blob ( _ “I love it, Jay, because it’s part of what makes you, you. It’s a part of you, and I love—” _ )

His hand meets the side of his head in a way that’s become too familiar a motion. The thuds and pain grounds him. Remind him where he is. She used to hate when he did that. Would she even care anymore? 

He doesn’t know. He used to. Used to know her so well. Better than any bomb, any treasure, any gold he owned. He’d of given them all up for her. He would have done anything she’d asked. Maybe that’s why he had agreed to break up, even though he still loved her with his whole heart, with every inch of his being. 

Jamison turns his back on the door. He can hear everyone, the general commotion of an entire room talking at once. He can hear her too, like a canary song, laughing and talking and getting along excellent and definitely not caring about him. 

In front of him, now, is another door. The one that leads to his room. It had been a large supply closet, complete with a little window. He’d spent his time collecting small things—books, jewelry, trinkets—that she might like. Books were his favorite, though. He’d search library shelves for hours on end, trying to find something interesting, something he thought she’d like. It was worth it, to see her face light up, or listen to her read to him. 

They’re all in boxes now. She took her favorites when they went through their stuff to divvy up what was whose. The rest stayed. It was too much to take with her when she got relocated to another base. 

He lands on his bed. _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ _Stop thinking about her_. Usually, he’s better than this. He thought he was over it. Done with crying and breaking down and hiding in his room. Done with her. 

She’s certainly done with him. She’s moved back here, ready to work with him in a professional setting. Like nothing else ever happened. What? Like he’s nothing? 

_ “We’ve met.”  _ What a petty thing to say. A petty, rude something to say. What does that even mean,  _ “We’ve met”? _ They didn’t even talk about it, not really. Not when she first said, quiet and low, that maybe they should spend some time apart; not when she told him she accepted the transfer she was offered; not when they went through the apartment they shared and decided what was to go with who. They never talked about it. She never gave a good reason. And he wants answers. Explanations! 

The tears are gone from his face, the burning replaced with anger. His wooden leg clunks loudly as he stomps over to the other room. The doorknob turns, giving way to his harsh grip, and he sees her organizing something from a box and content. 

A few people watch as he makes his way over. He can’t blame them, even as he glares at them; he looks more like “Dr. Junkenstein” than “Junkrat”. Still, he makes a beeline to her. Ready to give her a price of his mind. Who does she _ think  _ she is, walking back into  _ his _ life all of a sudden.

Then she looks at him. Brown eyes with a hint of gold, like scattered bits of metal from a detonated bomb. Or stars. She loves the stars. So much so that he can see them in her eyes when he looks at her. The same eyes he’s looked into so many times before, the eyes he’s fell in love with a hundred times before. The eyes he falls in love with every time he looks into them and, as his emotions change, he knows this time is no different. 

He feels like there’s a conflicting war inside him. Part of him wants to break down again, no matter how tired he is of it. Because he looks at someone he’s loved for nearly a decade, probably more, and knows she doesn’t love him back. 

But another part of him feels home. Like everything’s going to be alright. How many times has he looked at her for comfort, and she provided, whispered the words he needed to hear? He wants that again, to fall into her arms and cry, while she tells him that it’s okay, she’s here for him, she’s not leaving. Not again. 

“Do you need something?” 

He’s been standing there, staring at her. Yes, he needs  _ answers _ , dammit. Explanations and maybe that comfort he misses? Just tell her that you want to talk, _ tell you want to talk, tell her— _

“No.”

She nods, smiling awkwardly. She continues taking things out of the box in front of her. Stationary. Color-coded and perfectly organized, just like she always wanted it.  _ “Blue for personal things, orange for work, yellow for our date nights—” _

“How’s Mako?” She looks at him from the corner of her eye, waiting to see if he’ll participate in the conversation. Still, she doesn’t stop working. It gives her an excuse not to look at him. 

“Alright,” he nods. “Back in ‘Oz. There startin’ up the base there again.” She hums. Of course, she’s heard of it, she’s in Overwatch. “Wants ta see if they can get rid of some of the radiation.”

“Right.” She turns to ask someone for the other box of office supplies. “And you didn’t go with him?”

“Nah, I—” He stops. He never left because he wanted to be here if she came back. But how can he say that? How can he explain that to her? “Didn’ wanna.”

“Right.” The box is unpacked now. Everything stacked in neat little piles according to what drawer they’ll go in. Anxious hands run over her lab coat before they land in her pockets. She rocks back and forth, and for a moment, neither of them know what to say. “It’s, um, good to see you again.” 

“Yeah.” She looks over what she’s just sorted through, as if she expects some huge error that will allow her another distraction. She comes up empty. He forces himself to speak. “You too. You, uh, look nice.” 

Jamison catches himself before he calls her “Sheila.” It used to be in place of her name, before they started dating, and meant nothing more than what it usually would. But when they started dating, it became a term of endearment. It would feel wrong now. 

The second box is brought over and they both breath a sigh of relief, even if she looks like she wished she had it moved somewhere else, away from him. He looks away, at the other people milling around the room. He counts at least ten. Ten buffers between them, for however long she’ll be here. “‘Used to be Junkrat’?” 

“Wha’?” He looks back in surprise. 

“William said you _ used to be _ Junkrat,” she explains. She’s turned to look at him again, curiously winning out. “What’d he mean?” 

“Oh, I um…” How can he explain  _ this _ ? “I stopped goin’ on missions.” 

She hums. Her hesitation comes from not wanting to breach past the casual small talk. Her hesitance hurts; there used to be a time they’d talk about anything, and kept no secrets from one another. Again, curiosity wins out. “Why?”

“Jus’ didn’t feel like it.” He shrugs. Now, he really wishes he was back in his room. Would it be rude to leave? 

She scoffs, stopping her organizing. “ _ You? “ _ Didn’t feel” like blowing things up? Really?” 

“Yeah.” He looks back at her. They’re almost the same height, and it’s easy enough to send a half-hearted glare towards her. “What? You don’ believe me? Well, ain’t that a surprise.” Sarcasm drips from his words. It’s a phrase that became too common, towards the end of their relationship. 

She glares at him, for a moment, like she’s ready to fire back. Instead, she turns on her heel to the table behind her, grabbing something supercilious. “No, I’m just surprised, is all.” 

“Don’t be,” he spits out. “ _ People change _ .” 

She turns to him so quickly her hair whirls around her face. “Is that why you came here? To start another argument?” 

“Another? If I’m remeberin’ correctly, it was  _ you  _ that started most of ‘em.” His voice rises easily. It always has, when he’s mad. 

She looks around. A couple of people are looking to them now, surprised by his outburst. “You want to talk about this  _ now _ ?” She hisses, voice so soft and close to whispering that he has to lean in to hear her. 

The anger inside him rises up. Like lava bubbling inside and ready to burst. He nods. She closes her eyes and huffs. “William?” She turns to him, where he’s working on setting up her computer. “I’ll be right back.”

He nods, smiling brightly. “Okay.” Jamison gets a front row seat to the way he lights up when he looks at her. He really  _ does  _ like her. 

She leads him back to the room he just emerged from, shoes tapping softly on the tiled floor. It hits him that this is the first time in  _ two years _ that they’re going to be alone together. And they’re going to be fighting. Of course, they are. 

She leans against the wooden workbench, just like she has so many times before. “Well?” She crosses her arms impatiently. 

“Why’re you here?” The words are out of his mouth before he realizes. She looks confused, obviously going to say  _ “because you told me to come,” _ but he continues before she gets the chance. “Willie’s says you’ve been ‘ere fer months. Ya musta known I was still ‘ere.” He begins pacing, glaring at whatever’s in front of him as long as it’s not her. His wooden leg punctuates his point as he continues. “ _ Months _ . I get if ya didn’ want ta say hi, or get a cuppa, but… ya never told me why…” He trails off, looking up at her. His pain must show on his face because she has the courtesy to look ashamed. 

“I--I don’t know. I don’t have a good explanation,” she admits. If there’s one thing she’s always been good at, it’s not making excuses. “At first, I wasn’t going to stay permanently, so I thought it would be better if you didn’t know. And then, I had things to do, test to run, other people to talk to. I was able to put it off until I convinced myself that I shouldn’t come and see you because I had been here too long.” She closes her eyes and breathes in. “I’m sorry.”

He nods. He gets that feeling, one that came often enough; feeling like she shouldn’t have to apologize because she could do no wrong in his eyes. Even now, he’s ready to forgive her with open arms, if it meant he could have her back in his. But he can’t forgive that easily, and forgiving her now wouldn’t suddenly make her love him again. So he just nods. 

“An’ why we broke up?” He watches her breath in. She’s tried to prepare herself for this question, he can see, but it still is hard. She told him, once when she had suggested a break, and he had begged her not to. To reconsider. That he’d change, do anything for her. That pleading, sniveling person seems so different to who he is now. Much younger, and weaker. But is it really all that different? Was he not just crying  _ again  _ over her?

“I told you.” He sighs, interrupting her. Looks like he’s going to hear the same regurgitated two words over again. “There was no  _ one _ reason. Just, sometimes… people change.” 

He laughs. It’s cold, and so unlike how he usually laughs. He can see it scares her, and he focuses his amber eyes on her. Good. “ _ “People change.”  _ People change their ‘airstyle, or their type of clothes. Not jus’ wake up and decide that you don’t love someone you’ve been with for seven years.” 

She opens her mouth to argue, but no words come out. It hurts, that she can’t even argue with him because he’s right. He continues, walking closer. “I  _ loved  _ you. I loved you so much, I woulda died for ya. I woulda done anything. Did that mean nothing to ya?”

He’s close enough that she has to look up to talk to him. There are tears in her eyes, and he knows he’s the cause, and no matter how angry he is, or how much she doesn’t love him, or how long they’ve been apart, he never wants to be the cause. “Of course it did, Jamison--”

He winces. Visibly winces. He can probably count on one hand the number of times she’s called him “Jamison,” and one of them was when he introduced himself, and one of them was right now. That, for some reason, hurts more than it probably should.  _ “We’re friends, Jamie, and friends give each other nicknames.”  _ He shakes his head. Not now. Stupid, stupid brain. How can you hallucinate someone who’s standing right in front of you? 

When he blinks the spots out of his vision, she looks concerned. He wants her to continue, but there’s another question. One that’s been itching in the back of his mind since that day she told him they should spend some time apart. He’s never been one for tact, so he allows the words to rush out of his mouth before he can second-guess himself. “Is it because ya… ya wanted to see somebody else?”

She blinks, the action causing tears to fall. “No, no, no. God, no. Of course not.” She wipes her face, then stuffs her hands into her pockets. “That was--It wasn’t anything wrong with you, or the... relationship. It was, it was  _ me _ .”

Acting on instinct, allowing himself a reprieve from watching her, he gets a tissue for her. It’s actually a paper towel, but she accepts it all the same. “Ain’t that a retired line?”

She huffs. She looks so tired, with slightly red eyes and nose. “It’s the truth.” 

He moves away from her, giving her some space to breathe. As he leans on the table, mimicking her position, he feels odd. Not like he has closure, but like some of the weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Some questions have been answered. Not all of them, and not all of the weight, but enough, for now. 

Speaking of… “Wha’ happens now?”

“Now?” She looks at him. She’s always been the one with a plan. More calculated and precise than he’ll ever be. “I’m going to get cleaned up, then finish moving in. We’re going to work on the project for Angela, and after that…” She shrugs. “We’ll go from there.”

She throws the tissues in the trash. The door to the hallway is the one she heads for, but she stops before she gets there. “I’m going out for drinks on Friday. With William.” 

And then she’s gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminiscing, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but it felt like a good place to end the chapter, so I hope you don't mind. Plus, the feedback I got on the last chapter really inspired me, so thank you to everyone who read, left a comment/kudos. 
> 
> The next chapter will be super long to make up for it, I promise. 
> 
> Also, I feel like Junkrat's engineering side isn't brought up a lot? He doesn't have formal education, sure, but he's still super smart. Idk.

# 

The following week is… not pleasant. Monday marks the official start of the project and a sort of makeshift assembly line. Her team presents the first test: the same healing medication Mercy uses in her staff. Enough to heal two or three bullet wounds, and his job is to build a corresponding chest plate that distributes it to the whole person. He finds that the dosage isn’t enough to spread evenly across the body, so it’s sent back to her. Back and forth, with the progressing days presenting more problems than answers. 

As the only other person with a background in engineering, she’s in both rooms equally. That presents some awkward times. Usually, she keeps a respectful “acquaintances” distance, but sometimes she’ll come closer, pushing the boundary of “friends”. And sometimes, when she’s excited to show her something, she’ll get close, and toe the line of something more. And then she’ll jump back, like she’s been burned, and they’re back to acquaintances, usually finding something to do in the other room. 

It’s those moments— when they both forget themselves and slip back into a routine that was their norm for so long— that make him prefer the awkward ones more. When she tells him, excitedly, about their newest conclusion, eyes lighting up and talking animatedly together. Or when she looks at this as a puzzle, with all the pieces in front of her but not knowing where they go, every failing as a tell that the pieces need to me moved, flipped or rotated to connect with something else, and takes the challenge head-on. When she brings him lunch, chips and boba— half sweet, and the fact that she didn’t even need to ask. Or when she laughs at his jokes, or knows what tool he wants before he can remember the name of it; all simple little moments that remind him of why he fell in love with her. And it hurts. It makes his heartache, because it’s so easy to pretend like nothing’s changed. Like there was no two year gap: this is just year eight. 

If she feels the same, she doesn’t say. 

Not explicitly. But one day, when he passes out at the workbench, he wakes up with a blanket draped around his shoulders and tea waiting for him. And then he feels like he’s twenty-five all over again, meeting her for the first time and getting butterflies in his stomach. 

Other than that, things go smoothly for him. His medication dosage is upped, and he finally feels like he’s in control of his own head again. Even if it is temporary. He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until there’s a One-Month Party. There’s streamers, and cake, and music, and dancing, and him, sitting in his side of the lab, working on something. 

“Not going to join us?” She leans against the door, smiling. She must know the answer, because she brought two slices of cakes. An olive branch, of sorts.

“’M busy.” He’s really not, just fiddling with wires on a project he started ages ago. Something small, something forgettable, something that gives his hands to do and his mind to focus on as she crossed the room. 

She laughs, sitting next to him. The cake— chocolate with extra frosting— is placed on the other side, inviting. “Of course you are.” She watches him a bit, resting her head on her folded arms. “They don’t bite, ya’know?”

He grumbles to himself. He just wants to be alone. Well, for the most part. Even on his darkest days, when he was content to tell the whole world to go screw itself, he wanted her around. The feeling of invasion everyone else brought was never present, with her. Still, there’s another person that’s on his mind. “How’s yer date, ‘en?” 

“Is that why you’re grumpy?” Looking at her reveals that she’s just smiling, half-teasing, half-tired. She always seems much more tired recently. “Great. It went great. We’re getting married next week.” 

He gives her a pointed look. Try as she might, she can’t hold in her laugh. “Kidding, I’m kidding. Lighten up.” He earns himself a slap on the shoulder. “We, uh, haven’t gone. It’s just, I get so involved in this project that I forget about everything else. Or I’m so drained that I wouldn’t be good company. You remember, right?”

He does. The days when she had been focused for so long that she wanted nothing more than to turn her brain off and watch some crappy TV. They’d cuddle up together, joke around, and watch Ducktales till the sun came up. It’s some of his fondest memories. Is this what it means to be friends with your ex? Just be reminded about what happened when you dated as they go through the same stages with somebody else? 

“But we’re scheduled for tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.” She nods, taking a bite of her cake. Her frosting is has been scraped off and moved to his plate. She always found it too sweet. That little domestic-ness had him feeling all warm and fuzzy again. 

He takes a bite of his cake. The chocolate is offset by the buttercream frost. Sweet, but not overly so. It’s good. It reminds him of when they used to bake together in the cramped kitchen of her tiny apartment. It was rare they got time away long enough to leave base, let alone together, but they relished it when they could. 

He remembers laying in her bed, hands tracing over each other, exploring each other’s bodies. Not in a sexual way— well, not  _ all  _ the time— but just as a way to comfort each other. Intimate in a way neither of them had known. Lying in her bedroom that had to double as an office, he would promise her that he’d buy her a house one day. Anywhere she wanted to live, any size she wanted. If she wanted a pool, they’d have one. A big house, with a library and a fireplace and ten, no  _ fifteen  _ bedrooms! She’d laugh and ask why they would need so many rooms, and he’d tell her it was for the kids.  _ The kids? _ she’d ask.  _ A small army’s worth _ , he’d tell her.  _ Name ‘em after all the best bombs _ . She’d laugh again, and the rest of the day was spent thinking of names. She vetoed the bomb idea, he knew she would, but he was surprised to find that she would want to name one of their kids after him. He didn’t ask why, at the time. Just continued talking about what they’d look like, what features they liked best about the other person and hoped their children would inherit. So many days were spent like that. 

The apartment wasn’t her’s anymore. She’d moved out when they broke up and got transferred. He remembers the way he helped her, putting her things in boxes as they decided what belonged to who. Barely a word had been spoken between them. It had lasted about an hour or two before she pushed him out and sent him what she deemed his in a box.

He looks at here. Does she remember any of that? Does she care? 

She must remember at least, because she looks suddenly uncomfortable. There’s no polite way to leave, each of them have a good portion of their cake left. Despite her plate being half-full, she throws it away. “I’ll see you Monday, I guess.” He takes another bite of his slice, not saying anything. The awkward nod cements the suddenly heavy atmosphere. 

The sound of the party fills the room as she slips into the other room, then is muffled again as the door closes. The daylight has faded, the room illuminated by the blue tones of a rising moon. 

_ “Jamison?”  _ He had asked. Not then, not the day she had suggested it, but later, when she had tiredly whispered it— half-asleep and searching for him.  _ “What’s so special about that?” _

_ “I just like it,”  _ she shrugged. She always seemed to know what he was talking about, even with the barest of information. He still recalls the way she had curled her hair around her finger. The brown curls twisted of their own accord, framing her like some ancient goddess.  _ “It’s a nice name. The name of the man I fell in love with. I think naming one of our kids would cement that.” _

He’s not hungry anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I have a [ tumblr](https://allthelovelybadones.tumblr.com) (shameless plug) if you wanna talk more? About this story, this character, or just about anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I mentioned, but this fic was inspired by a [song of the same name by Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FbZvDba6ew). specifically the lines:
>     
>     
>     _Remember all the things we wanted
>     Now all our memories, they're haunted
>     We were always meant to say goodbye_
>     
> 
> and
>     
>     
>     _I didn't want us to burn out
>     I didn't come here to hurt you, now I can't stop_
>     
> 
> Of course, you don’t need to listen to this song, but I do recommend it if you want some more angst feels.
> 
> **Trigger warning** for this chapter (but also kinda spoiler warning— if you’re not affected by triggers, I suggest not reading): panic attack. Not named, but described in detail. If you want to skip it, Ctrl + F the phrase: “it’s over now” (no quotations).   
> Also, this is from Junkrat’s POV and he doesn't have the best self-confidence, so the way he feels about himself after he panic attack is not healthy and untrue. Also, disclaimer: I’ve never had a panic attack, so I just tried my best to write it.

The uncomfortable beds in the med-bay were never welcoming, he knew. Jamison had been here more times that he could count. The paper covers beneath him had become as familiar as his own sheets, and no less lonely. He knew, not even having to be told, to wait on the bed furthest from the door and to the left. It where Angela put all the patients that were waiting, giving space to emergency patients. 

“Mr. Fawkes?” Jamison didn’t even notice he was being talked to, at first. Who the hell called him  _ “Mr. Fawkes”? _ He looked up to see a shorter lad, hair neatly slicked back and wide-rimmed glasses perfectly clean. Pasty skin matched the harsh lights that shone down. Not an imperfection on him, just like the rest of the place. Must be a new intern the doc got; she was always needing more help. 

“Yeah?” He prompted, getting irritated. 

“Dr. Zeilger will be with you momentarily,” the intern rushed out. He seemed to have paled a bit, but it was hard to tell. With that, he left. 

If Angela was busy, it could take up to an hour to get to him. He rolled his shoulders and settled in for a long wait. Just for something to do, he fished around in his pockets. A small screwdriver in the front pocket, a polishing rag in another— how long has  _ that _ been there?— and a couple of wire ends. Instinctively, he reached for the pocket inside his lab coat, one he started wearing about a month ago. His hands found the thing he was fiddling with the night of the party. 

He knew what it was the moment his fingers brushed against it. Bringing it out into the light, the silver surface shined. Jamison traced engravings of the small trinket in the palm of his left hand. He could only feel the cool metal with the tips of his fingers, the silver and light purple colors in near-perfect tandem. The silver heart piece was the base, the purple resin inlays formed little gears around it. He never figured out what it was supposed to be exactly, a large necklace piece or small decoration. Just had the idea one day, and started building. 

For three years he’s fiddled with it, and it still doesn’t work. The resin gears should move and interlock like real parts would, and it would open the small lock on the side. It never seemed to work out, though. Either the gears would move too slow or not at all, and the latch wouldn’t be able to pop open or it would happen too fast, irritating mechanical whirring for a split second that overran the motors. 

He doesn’t know why he still bothers; the sense of comfort he took from building things for her long gone. Now, it just familiar. Even bad things can give a sick sense of comfort, if they’re constant enough, he figures. Then laughs, just to mute his own voice. 

A polite clearing of the throat brings him back to the present. 

“Jamison,” Angela greets. They had formed an odd kind of friendship in the past couple years, and he had kindly agreed to stop calling her “bird” if she didn’t call him by his last name. “How are you feeling today?”

“Al’ight, I suppose.” He pushed the metal piece back into the pocket inside his coat, against his heart. 

She nodded, glancing at the clipboard. “The new prescription I gave you, you’re taking it?”

“Yup.”

“With meals?”

Meals? He wasn’t sure the last time he sat down to have a proper “meal”. Usually, food consisted of whatever was in the vending machine outside his lab. When was the last time he had been to the cafeteria? Musta been when William forced him to, but that mighta been… what? Weeks now?

She seemed to take his silence as an answer. “Try to take your pills when you eat. And eat three times a day.” She marked something down on her clipboard. “Drinking water?” More silence. “Have you socialized with anyone?”

“Sure. Ya sent a shit-ton of ‘em ta me, how could I not?” His glare was half-hearted and she had known him long enough to realize it. 

“Try and schedule eating meals with some friends. It’ll remind you to eat. And socializing is just as good for your health. Maybe with William?” 

He snorted. “William? ‘E nearly thanked me for an ‘our when I told him he could watch the lab when I was away. An’ you want me to spend time outsida work?”

Angela nodded again. She wrote something else, then put it down on the table next to him. “And how is everything? How is working with others?”

“A pain,” he deadpanned. He crossed his arms, refusing to talk about what he thought she was leading to. Either she was going to see about sending more people, or she was going to ask about his ex. Neither seemed like things he wanted to discuss. 

“Can you try talking to some of them? Civilly? It can be in a group setting, whenever you’re ready. Some place where you feel safe and can leave any time. Just try to find some neutral ground, alright?” 

He nodded. She was right, of course. But it was a lot easier said than done. He turned over her words in his head as he walked, meandering back to his lab. It wasn’t a short walk by any means: three floors up then two long hallways. It wasn’t helped by the fact that there was construction on every floor. People bustling around, areas blocked off, and so much noise. 

“Hold the elevator! Hold the elevator!” 

Jamison looked up, trying to find the source of the voice as he complied anyway. He didn’t see anyone; just ladders, drop cloths, and a stack of boxes. A moving stack of boxes. One that entered the elevator with him. 

“Thanks!” The boxes said, and turned. A short lady appeared, seemingly shorter than the stack of boxes she was carrying. Electric pink hair bobbed as she sighed in relief, round cheeks filling and releasing air. She grinned up at him. “Fifth floor, please.”

“Sure.” He pressed the button, what a coincidence they were going to the same room. The  _ ding! _ of approval was the only sound until the quiet, mechanical whirring started with their ascent. 

He didn’t care to talk to her, and went back to his conversation with Angela. A small, group setting where he could leave any time. It’d be good for his health, he supposed, and god-knows how much he values that. He just couldn’t think of a place where he could be where  _ she  _ wasn’t. And, right now, he wasn’t sure it’d be easier with or without her. 

“For the new visitor center, in case you’re wondering.” 

“Wha?” He was torn from his thoughts when the girl beside him spoke up. 

“These boxes have decorations for the new visitor center. And a bit for a new office. In case you were wondering,” she explained further. “You were just awful quiet.” 

“Jus’ thinking.” He shrugged. He didn’t really liked when the new people blabbered on. From experience, he knew short replies yielded the best results— lack of further conversation. 

“Good things? Bad things? Exciting things? Technology things?” She eyed his lab coat. “You work in the engineering lab?” 

Jamison nodded. The screen that read out levels flashed  _ 4. _ Almost there. He isn’t sure how to continue, and just being around another person he doesn’t know makes his chest feel like there's a heavy weight on him. A pressure that makes him want to leave, run away. 

“Did ya hear about the visitor lab?” She bounced excitedly, pink curls moving with her. 

“Nah. Didn’ know they were building one.” He smiled when the elevator stopped, the number five on the screen. Finally. The tightness in his chest alleviated a bit. “This yer stop?”

“Oh, yeah!” She stepped forward, looking to the sides of boxes. “Do you think you could help me with this?”

The uncomfortable feeling in his chest was back with a vengeance, but Jamison pushed it down. Wasn’t this what he was supposed to be doing? Socializing? Meeting new people and whatnot? Forcing his arms forward, he took a little more than half of the stack, so she could actually see now. 

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, he was met with construction. No more new people bustling about, but half the hallway is covered with drop cloths, the other half blocked off with yellow tape. The lady led the way, managing to avoid the folds in the cloth, the paint buckets and ladders and brushes, and show him to a room at the furthest end of the hall. 

“Wha’s all this, then?” He asked as the entered the dimly lit room. It seemed to be the beginnings of an office, a desk and some chairs shoved up against the side wall. Boxes took up most of the opposite wall, and the ones in his arms joined the pile. The room seemed too small, like a miniature that he has to escape. Heart beating, so rapidly, restless. 

“Someone’s moving into this office, I’ve heard.” His companion is bustling around, checking the writing on the cardboard boxes. They’re color coded, it seems. “And the rooms next door are going to be part of the visitor center.”

Restless, restless, restless. Like he needs to leave. Now. 

“Visitor center, way up here?” He stays. Forces himself to. One, two, three. Breath.  _ One, two, three. _ He  _ is _ supposed to do this, isn’t he? Talk to others? Be more social? It’s supposed to help, isn’t it? So why does his head hurt so bad? It feels like he’s got a migraine. A pounding against the side of his skull, faster and faster that is only quickened by his rising heartbeat. It thrums against his chest, making it hurt. Ache, so deep inside, until the pressure is suffocating. 

If the lady opposite him notices his discomfort, she doesn’t say. She probably doesn’t, since she’s faced the other way. He thinks she’s speaking. He can hear her voice, but not her words. What is happening? It hasn’t been this bad in so long.

_ Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong—  _

Jamison doesn't know if he tells her he’s leaving, or if she knows he’s gone at all. He just finds himself outside, the air smells of paint and plaster. He’s not sure where he’s going, only that the lights are so bright. Blindingly. Scorching, beating down on him. He wants to tear off his lab coat, try to cool down, but his hands are shaking so bad he knows he wouldn’t be able to. 

No one’s around, not even that lady from before. He’s not sure where he is, nor how to get back to where he was before. 

He’s alone. Totally alone. 

He stumbles forward. This is the fifth floor, he reminds himself, his lab is on this floor. Somewhere, among these long hallways that seem never ending. He has to get there, needs to get there. Before, before... Before what? A pang of fear strikes him: he’s going to die. He  _ is _ going to die. Out here, alone, in a maze of hallways he’s walked thousands of times. He’s alone, here, and  _ he’s going to die. _ They’re going to find his body, alone and cold. Dead, alone, all alone.  _ She’s _ going to find him. 

His sheila. 

She’d know what to do. She’d call out to him, in a way he can almost hear now. Her voice calm, collected. Never rushing, never pushing. Here, it’s warm. Hot. Blazing. But she’s a comforting breeze. A shadow. A place of respite. Of calm. What would she do? Her voice still seems so far away, but calling out for him.  _ “Jamie? Jamie?” _ Get closer? It sounds like it. He can’t relax. Not fully. But it’s better with her here. “Jamie?” Definitely getting closer. Like a far off rain that moves towards him, alleviating the heat. 

And then she’s in front of him. 

Her face is shrouded in the dark, shadows cast from the window nearby. Her hair slightly messy. Was she sleeping before? She must have been; she’s wearing her pajamas, and they’re in their old bed. It creaks under her weight—  _ “We’ve really got to get a new one,”  _ she might say if this were a different time. _ “I think you’ve totally wrecked this one”  _ —and she shifts so she’s directly in front of him. 

Like a lighthouse, her voice beckons him. A clear port. Something tangible. Something guiding. Something safe.  _ “Jamie?” _ Her voice is soft, quiet. She waits for him to respond. “Jamison, can you hear me?” 

The lights change; she’s more illuminated. Hair more kept up. It reminds him of the present, of the pain, and he closes his eyes. His breathing— still too fast.  _ Inoutinoutinoutinoutinout—   _

His hands are shaky, unsteady, and he feels like he can’t even control them anymore. If he can’t control his own fucking hands, what can he control? Not the pressure on his chest. His chest feels like someone’s got a grip on it, holding it tight. Squeezing. Tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter. Forcing all the air from him. 

When he opens them, they’re both in the dark again. “Sheila? Are ya here?” He reaches forward, normal hand searching for her. He finds her, and she feels so warm. So real. She brings her own hand to hover over his. 

“Is it alright if I touch you?” He nods, or at least he thinks he does, because he’s met with her warmth. Her stability. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to die. He’s dying. This is just his last moments. And then the dark will become permanent. 

“Don’ want ya hear to see this,” he says. His voice is shaky and course, but she just moves her other hand forward. It comes to rest on the side of his face. The one spot she touches feels better, cool, put together. He forces his hand to his chest like she can somehow save him. She can’t, he still hurts, but she mirrors his action. 

His hand is brought to her chest, feels the rise and fall that so much slower than his. Still bathed in shadow, until she’s not. Until she’s under that light. It doesn’t seem as bright anymore. But it still hurts, hurt so bad, bliding.  _ “Breath, my love. Breath with me.”  _

He tries, he really does try. But it feels like he’s suffocating, drowning in his own tears— when had he started crying? It only makes his chest hurt worse. Still, he tries, choking back air, trying, forcing oxygen to his lungs, trying, failing, inhaling deep and letting the air fill him up until he’s sure he’ll die from lack of breath, trying, failing, again, again, again. 

_ “One, two, three,” _ she counts. So familiar. So comforting. 

Trying, trying, trying, trying… 

“Four, five, six.” She’s close. She’s here. She didn’t leave. She wants to be near him. She’s whispering to him,  _ “You can get through this. You’re so strong. I know you can.” _

The air sucked back into his lungs stays a little longer before he dispels it. Stays. Waits for her count. 

“Seven.  _ Eight. _ Nine.” What’s real? What’s not? The only constant, as she moves through the shadows and becomes a different person, bathed in light, is the pain. “Concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present.” 

“Ten.” He feels the rise and fall of her chest. Takes comfort in it. Tries, tries, tries. 

Succeeds. 

His breathing slows, but his head still hurts. 

“I’m so proud of you, Jamie.” She’s smiling, and he can see her clearly. “Keep breathing. Keep following me. You’re so strong. You’re going to get through this.” 

He watches her mouth as she talks. Watches her form the words, vowels and constants keeping him grounded. When she smiles, he watches her lips turn upward. Copies the movement himself. 

Breathes in an unsteady breath. When he refocuses on her— he’s not sure when he closed his eyes, but it doesn’t alarm him like before— he feels sluggish. Exhausted. He counts to ten again in his head. When that’s done, he watches her eyes search him for some kind of discomfort. Waits for him, would wait as long as needed. And he knows it. 

He loves her. He knows he does. Knows he probably always will. The hand on her face wipes some of his tears away. Makes him feel kind of bashful, he supposes. An overreaction before. 

“One more big breath.” She does it first. He watches her collarbones form, listens to inhale, then follows. He hiccups a few times, a mess, but she never takes her hand away. Constant. Comfort. 

She’s fully illuminated now, wearing her lab coat. Her key card in her pocket. She kneels in front of him, knees digging into the drop cloths below. He’s sitting against the wall— or, judging by the upturned can by him, collapsed. Hair neatly tucked away from where she was working in the lab. The light that seemed so harsh before has turned down, and the midday sun shines behind her. Making her look devine. 

She smiles in a sad sort of way and he recoils like he’s been burned. Of course, he realizes. She doesn’t want to be here, with him. She just pities him. He’s a fool for thinking anything different. He yanks his hand away from her, from under her’s. She seems confused, but pulls away too. Compared to the overwhelming heat he felt before, he feels freezing now. But gross. Pathetic. 

“I know. I know.” Her sad smile is still there, tinted by her soft words. But it’s over now. The worst of it, he supposes. She stands to cement that. “I could help you back to your room, if…”

He’s already struggling to stand. Even now, a little over thirty, his missing limbs make it hard for him to stand. Unsure footing doesn’t help, but Jamison hugs the wall for support, definitely ignoring her hand. The weariness that seems to take him as soon as he tries to move almost causes him to fall. When he has his two feet under him, he follows her back. She asks if he’s hungry. He’s starving and his mouth feels so dry, but he doesn’t say anything. He just wants to lie down, maybe take something for his head. 

He knows where he is, thanks to the landmark in the form of a gray and orange vending machine. Just past that is the door to his lab, and he’s surprised he’s made it this far. He takes one step, limping as always, but resolute. Another, until he can steady himself. 

His lab is dark, which helps, and his bedroom is darker still. He collapses on his bed, sheets not uncomfortable. It’s quiet now, emphasized by the lack of pounding in his head. Still, he’s keenly aware of the person standing by the door. 

“What’d you want?” It came out harsher than he intended, especially because he was going to finish with a “sheila” and it sounds unfinished without it. He leaves it unsaid, though, because it’s not his place. They’re colleagues, first and foremost. Nothing more. 

“I—“ she hesitates still. Stands on the border of a space that’s unequivocally his and feels uncomfortable. There’s a time when that would never happen, could never happen because they shared everything. That time is gone, leaving with her.

“I’m going to get you something to eat,” she finishes. The door shuts softly, carefully. He wonders if she did that on purpose. 

The inky darkness encompasses him. Welcomes him to a fitful, restless sleep, broken by the light from the lab cutting in. She hesitates slightly, stands at the door a minute too long, before bravely taking a step forward. 

She takes a seat on his bed, a tray of something in one hand and a cup in the other. She presents them to him: a salad and something he suspects is boba, but she won’t let him see. 

“Eat first,” she chides him, teasing almost. He takes a couple bites just to amuse her, and wouldn’t admit to it making him feel better. He eats a bit more when she smiles encouragingly. “Just something light, to settle your stomach. There wasn’t much left over from lunch.” 

He nods. “Ya went to get me boba?” 

Overwatch doesn’t serve it here, even though they got the ninja’s tea and cowboy’s whiskey. The closest place that sells it is down the street a way. The considerate thought makes his heart flutter in a way that’s so stupid, but so, so familiar. 

“No, I asked Will to.” 

“Will?” His mind searches for the name, lethargic. “Willie? William?” 

“Yeah,” her voice is quiet, like she’s hiding something. 

“Yeah. He do a lot ‘a what you ask?” His happy feeling is gone, replaced with something that feels like getting punched in the gut. It doesn’t help the pain in his head that seems to be worsening. “‘ow’d your date go, anyway? Bet you couldn’t wait to get away from ol’ Junkrat.” 

“It’s not like that, Jamie.” He can tell she’s getting upset, but he supposed he can understand. There was a time when he’d stop there. Leave, cool his head. But they’re colleagues at best, so fuck it. 

“It’s like tha’. I  _ know  _ it’s like tha’. For months I had to listen to him talk ‘bout how he can’t wait to date ya, then  _ you _ come and tell me. Now you two are getting cozy with each other and I’m supposed to watch? Twiddle my thumbs as you two fall in love?” 

That word strikes him deep.  _ Love.  _ He didn’t consider it before, but that is what’s going to happen. If not with William, then someone else after. Or the next person, till she’s good and moved on from him. Would it be worse, to watch, or for her to leave, and never really know what happened? 

She’s fuming. He knows it.  _ “You _ agreed to the breakup. You said you were fine with me moving on. Who I do or don’t date is none of your concern.” 

Jamison doesn’t say anything. She’s right. Doesn’t make him feel any better though. It’s a painful truth, and he’s been living with blissful lies. Delusions that she won’t move on, and even if he didn’t admit it, hope that this project would be something that let them fall back together. Until there’s an  _ us _ again. It’s why he’s kept that stupid heart in his right pocket. But those are just delusions. This—  _ her _ sitting right next to him, already falling in love with someone else, not possibly further apart from him, is a truth. A painful, ugly, cutting truth. The anger in him deflates, leaving him feel empty again. 

“I don’t want to fight,” she says quietly. There’s a certain kind of desperation to the way she speaks. A kind of tiredness. He doesn’t want to fight either. Not really. He is tired, mentally and physically drained. Not good company. “You’re probably tired. You should get some sleep.” 

Jamison has no more energy to deny that he’s not tired. He settles into his old spot as best he can, since she hasn’t moved yet. With the little bit of light that comes through the small window, shaded by paper blinds, and fighting to get past the high stacks of boxes, he can’t make out her expression. Doesn’t really get the chance to, as she looks around the room he’s called his for the past two years. Less of a bedroom, more of a glorified supply closet, messy, but  _ his. _

“Is this your room?” She holds the accusation from her voice, but he knows she’s judging it. Him. 

“Yeah,” he sounds defensive when he answers, he knows. But this is one of the few things that is his, alone. It had been decades since he lived alone, before her, before Rodie, just another orphaned kid on the Junkertown streets. Even with the boxes that take up half the room and collect even more dust, or the bed that’s too small for him pushed into the corner, or the shelving unit that houses old projects and pictures, mostly of her, that hurts to look at— even then, he likes this space. And he won’t stand for her looking down at him. “An’ what of it?”

“I just—” She seems apologetic at least. Not wanting to push past their boundaries. Colleagues at best. “I thought you might of moved into the room after…” 

He almost laughs. Partly because—  _ him, _ moving into the room offered by Overwatch? And getting cozy with the pencil pushers? He’d take his closet any day. Partly because it’s better that the pain, then knowing she can so casually talk about what  _ happened, _ when he can’t even call it what it is. 

“Nah, I like it ‘ere. And it’s good to be close to the lab, just in case.” He taps his right leg, where the metal meets flesh. Where’s there is scarring, deep and dark. ‘Bout three years ago, he got hurt on a job gone wrong. Nothing more, nothing less. But now it’s good to be close to the lab, just in case it starts acting up again. 

“Oh, right, yeah.” She’s uncomfortable. And before she even opens her mouth, he knows what she’s going to say— to get some sleep. She’s never been good at opening up when pressed, but distracting, deflecting, she’s always been great at that. On the best of days, it was something he accepted as a fault— everyone had one, he has more than his fair share, and she has some of her own. On the bad days, that came too often towards the end, it was the source of many a fight.

She does, tell him to get some sleep, and he listens. With a yawn, he pulls to covers of him, not caring that he’s still dressed. When the door clicks closed for the last time, he turns onto his stomach, trying to get more comfortable, and falls asleep with the sterling silver heart pressing against his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to be honest, the reason this fic updates so inconsistently is because I am in a place where I _really_ don't like what I write. I feel like I'm not getting the characters right, things are too rushed, the pacing is off, the dialogue is wrong-- basically, I hate everything about it. I'm not saying that I'm going to quit this fic, or that I'm going to stop updating everything. Just that there may be long gaps between updates. I'm really sorry, but I think that you have the right to know if/when that happens.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old work I did when I was taken with motivation, angst, and the shadow of something resembling an idea. From my old notes, I have a general idea of where I want this story to go, and another, shorter chapter already done. Unfortunately, I kinda fell out of Overwatch, but reading this made me want to get back into it. 
> 
> I posted this unfinished work because I like the way it had turned out, and there's a drought of Overwatch / reader, let alone Junkrat / reader. 
> 
> If you've made it this far, consider leaving a comment or something. It really does motivate me. 
> 
> And, hey, thanks.


End file.
